"WHERE CAN SHE BE?"
FOR two or three weeks Marion's lessons went on better. Bending all her
powers of mind, which were by no means contemptible, to the construing
and understanding of her lessons in Virgil, she made the remarkable and
delightful discovery that she was reading poetry. Now, I am well aware
that there are many teachers who either never make this discovery for
themselves, or if they do by any chance find it out, they use every
effort to conceal the fact from their unlucky pupils, and try to make
those pupils consider the "sweet singers of old days" as only so much
material for parsing.
But Miss Oliver was not such a teacher. She had a strong sense of
beauty in all things; she had a correct and highly cultivated taste,
and she gave her pupils the benefit thereof; she wished to make them
readers as well as students. She gave them subjects for composition
which involved study and consultation of books, and the school library
books showed more signs of wear under her administration than they had
ever done before. In short, Miss Oliver tried in every way to create
and encourage a love of knowledge and literature for their own sake,
and she succeeded. Under her management the Crocker school had become
as good and useful as any institution in the whole State, and its
scholarships began to be eagerly looked after.
On the Thursday evening before the missionary meeting, as Marion was
walking slowly homeward, she was joined by Lizzy Gates. Lizzy had been
one of Miss Oliver's early trials. Under the rule of old Miss Parsons,
who was a kind of Queen Log, Lizzy had been allowed to do according to
her own pleasure; and as she had little or no training at home, that
pleasure was not of a very good kind. She was both violent tempered and
deceitful—two qualities more commonly united than many people suppose.
But Lizzy was gifted with strong natural sense. She began with more
or less open rebellion, but she soon found she had met her match in
Miss Oliver. She was first conquered, then she began to admire and at
last ended by loving her conqueror with all her heart. Not only had
she turned out a capital scholar, but she had become heart and soul
a Christian; and barring some hastiness of speech, she walked very
consistently.
"I am going up to your house, Marion," said Lizzy; "mother wants Miss
Barbara's recipe for short-bread and some turkey eggs, so I told her I
would walk up with you and get them."
"Can't you stay to tea?" asked Marion. "Do, and then you will see Aunt
Christian and Uncle Duncan."
"Well, mother said she had no doubt I would if any one asked me, and
perhaps I had better not disappoint her," answered Lizzy, laughing.
"Here is Therese coming; let's wait for her."
"I wonder if she is going home? I should hardly think Mrs. Tremaine
would allow it, now that her father is supposed to be about," said
Marion.
"I don't believe Therese has heard the story, and probably Mrs.
Tremaine doesn't wish that she should. Well, Therese where are you
bound?"
"Home," answered Therese.
"You won't have much time."
"No, and I don't mean to stay a minute. Mrs. Tremaine told me to come
back as soon as I could, because she wanted me. I left my French
Testament at home, and I am going after it."
"You are very happy with Mrs. Tremaine, are you not?"
"Yes, indeed," answered Therese, earnestly. "No girl could have a
better home, and then it is such a chance for me. Grandfather says I
shall be very much to blame if I don't improve it."
"What do you mean by 'a chance'?" asked Marion. "What sort of 'a
chance'?"
"Such a chance to learn," answered Therese. "Mrs. Tremaine gives me
time to learn my lessons every day, and hears me say them herself.
There are not many girls who have a better teacher than she is—not even
Miss Oliver's girls, for as high as they hold their heads," concluded
Therese, laughing. "You know Matty McRae says that Miss Oliver's girls
are stuck-up to the skies."
"But what do you study?"
"Grammar one day and arithmetic the next. Then I read aloud both French
and English, and write exercises when I have time. So, you see, I am
getting on famously, and I am quite right in saying that very few girls
have such a chance."
For a moment Marion remembered her own words about never having "a
chance" with something like a pang of conscience.
"You must have to work very hard, do you not?" said she.
"Oh no, not so very; but I shall not have so much to do now Miss
Crocker is going away. Oh dear! I do hope she will get well."
"Father says she has been very foolish—" Lizzy began; but Marion
interrupted her:
"Oh yes, of course; Dr. Gates would think any one very foolish who went
to the Cure."
Lizzy coloured and her eyes flashed at this certainly not very civil
remark.
After a minute's silence, however, she answered quietly, though not
without a certain emphasis,—
"If you had taken time to hear me out, Marion, perhaps you would have
understood the matter better. What I meant to say was that father said
Miss Crocker was very foolish to try to keep round on her lame foot
when it was first hurt. He says if she had been content to keep it up
on the sofa for a week, it would never have troubled her, and he is
glad she is going to the Cure, because Doctor Henry will make her keep
still."
"Miss Tilly knows that herself now," said Therese. "But she didn't
think it was anything."
"Just so, but she ought to have believed what father told her. She
might have had some confidence in him."
"She knows that too," said Therese. "She said yesterday to Kitty and
me, 'Take warning by me, girls, and don't think yourselves so much
wiser than every one else.'"
"But honestly, now, Therese, wouldn't you like better to go to school
as we do?" asked Marion, after a minute or two of mortified silence.
"Of course I should," answered Therese. "Who wouldn't? I don't pretend
to enjoy washing dishes or ironing or running up and down stairs
so much as I do studying and reading story-books, but what then? I
have not my choice in the matter. Somebody must work, and work is no
hardship so long as one is strong and well and does not have too much
of it. I do not work nearly as hard as Aunt Lenore or Aunt Madelaine."
"Lenore likes her work, too; I heard her say so," answered Lizzy.
"Yes, I know she does; she has a natural taste that way, and is very
skilful in using her fingers. All our family are so," said Therese,
with a little gentle pride. "Still, work is work, whether you like it
or not, and it isn't pleasant to work when one would rather play or
read."
"Yes; if one need only work when one felt like it, I shouldn't mind it
so much," said Marion, with a sigh.
"If you only worked when you felt like it, you would never accomplish
anything in the world," said Lizzy. "I am sure that plan doesn't answer
with lessons at all. I soon found that out. I tried it with my music.
I thought it would be dreadful to play when I didn't feel like it,
and presently I discovered that I never did feel like doing the most
important parts of my lessons, the scales and exercises. Now I just say
to myself, 'If I don't have this lesson, Mr. Dundas will scold nineteen
to the dozen when he comes, and that will provoke me and worry mother
dreadfully.' So I go at it as I would at the clothes-wringer. It is the
same with my compositions. If I wait till I feel like it, I am sure to
be behindhand."
Now, Marion had been behindhand several times lately, and she chose to
consider these words of Lizzy's as a hint at herself. It was a great
mistake, for Lizzy was not a person to give hints of any sort. However,
she drew into her shell and was very silent for the rest of the walk,
while Lizzy and Therese chatted gayly of all sorts of things.
"Well, good-bye, girls. I suppose I shall see you on Saturday?" said
Therese as they parted. "Are you going home pretty soon, Lizzy?"
"No; Marion has asked me to stay to tea," said Lizzy, who had never
guessed the offence she had given. "Be sure you come on Saturday,
Therese."
"How Mrs. Tremaine does spoil Therese!" said Marion, pettishly, as
Therese went on her way. "She is growing as forward as can be. I don't
think it is any kindness to her at all."
"Why, Marion, I think she is as sweet as can be," answered Lizzy,
warmly; "and as to her being forward, who was there to be forward to?
I'm sure she is as good as we are; why not?"
"But her father, Lizzy," said Marion, feeling that it would hardly
answer to bring the heiress of McGregor under the eye of such an
irreverent person as the doctor's daughter.
"Well, she isn't to blame for that, and I think it would be a shame to
visit it on her, don't you, Miss Barbara?"
"Don't I what, lassie?" asked Miss Baby, who was very fond of Lizzy,
though she did not hesitate to check her occasional forwardness. "Don't
you see my brother and sister, Doctor and Mrs. Campbell? Come and speak
to them now, like a lady. Christian will be glad to know your mother's
daughter."
"Well, I beg your pardon, Miss Baby," said Lizzy, blushing as usual,
but accepting the check with perfect good-humour. "You know I always
must go headlong, as ma says; I did not see that any one was here."
"And I am sure you are Lizzy Webb's daughter," said Mrs. Campbell,
coming forward; "you look exactly as she did when we used to go to
school together."
"Yes, ma'am, I am Lizzy Webb Gates. Ma sent her love to you, and she is
coming to see you as soon as baby is old enough to let her go out."
"And now what was it you desired my opinion upon? asked Miss Baby, when
the presentations had been duly accomplished.
"Oh, nothing of any great consequence," answered Lizzy, feeling pretty
sure that Marion would not care to have her remark repeated to her
aunt. "I was saying that it would be wrong to blame or slight Therese
Beaubien for the faults of her father."
"Very wrong and unfeeling. I hope nobody does it?"
"Well, I think some people do. Matty McRae downright insulted her
last Sunday. She said Tone Beaubien's—Well, there! I won't repeat it,
because I might not get the words just right, but she did throw it in
her face, and I think it's very mean."
"It certainly was, but I should not expect a great deal of poor Matty.
She has never had much 'chance,' as Marion says. But, my dear, you
will stay to tea, won't you? You will have plenty of time to go home
afterward."
Lizzy gladly accepted the invitation. She took off her bonnet and put
her hair to rights, and was soon seated in the parlour, quite at her
ease. Presently her tatting came out of her pocket, and the shuttle
began to fly through her fingers in that deft way which is so easy to
those who know it, and so incomprehensible to those who do not.
"I see that tatting is very much in fashion again," remarked Mrs.
Campbell; "I think I must try to learn it. What do you say, Miss Lizzy?
Will you teach me?"
"I will try," answered Lizzy; "but I can tell you beforehand it is one
of the hardest things to teach or to learn in the world."
"Well, I will make a bargain with you. If you will make me learn
tatting, I will teach you to make needle lace—an art which an Armenian
lady made a great favour of imparting to me."
Lizzy consented, and the lesson went on amid much laughter from teacher
and pupil. Marion looked on languidly. How could her aunt be so
interested in such a trifle? How could Lizzy be so entirely at her ease
with two strangers like Doctor and Mrs. Campbell?
"There is one thing, Lizzy, at which I am surprised," remarked Mrs.
Campbell, presently—"one thing in which I may say I am a good deal
disappointed. I have seen quite a number of the Crocker school girls,
and not one of them has asked me a question about little Rachel or the
school. I thought you took a great interest in the child. She does in
you, I assure you."
"I am sure we do in her, Mrs. Campbell," answered Lizzy, very much
surprised and a little offended. "We are all longing for Saturday
to come that we may hear about her. But Marion said that you wanted
nothing should be said about the matter till then, so of course I asked
no questions."
Mrs. Campbell turned to Marion with a look of surprise.
"I did not say that, Lizzy," said Marion, feeling very much confused,
for she had forgotten the whole matter. "What I did say was that I
thought Aunt Christian would rather tell you the story herself. I
thought it would spoil all the interest of the lecture if it was talked
over beforehand. That was all."
"You certainly said—However, it doesn't matter; I dare say that was
what you meant," said Lizzy. She saw that Marion was placed in an
uncomfortable predicament, and had no desire to make it any worse for
her. Lizzy was learning that charity which "rejoiceth not in iniquity."
"I don't see how you could think so, Marion," said Mrs. Campbell,
rather indignantly.
"You certainly gave me that idea, Aunt Christian. However, I suppose
I am wrong, as usual," said Marion, resignedly but mournfully. "It is
always my fate to do the wrong thing."
"That is an unlucky fate, certainly," said Mrs. Campbell, dryly. "But
now, Lizzy, what can I tell you about Rachel that you will like to
hear?"
"Oh, everything," said Lizzy. "Tell me what sort of clothes she wears,
please. Are they like ours?"
Mrs. Campbell replied, and the whole party were soon deeply engaged in
asking and answering questions.
Marion alone sat silent and constrained, hardly hearing a word that was
said, though Doctor Campbell, pitying her embarrassment, made several
attempts to include her in the conversation. Marion's thoughts were
busy with herself; as usual:
"How could I be so silly? What will Aunt Christian think of me? I might
have known it would come out. Oh dear! How unfortunate I always am!
Here is Lizzy Gates talking away at her ease and making aunt think she
is so sensible and bright, and I sit here looking like a fool. Oh dear!
Was there ever any one so unlucky as I am? Everything is sure to go
against me. I did so want Aunt Christian to like and appreciate me, and
now she never will."
"There! Now you have it right, if you can only remember it," said
Lizzy, at last. "I must say I hate to have people in general ask me to
show them, but you have learned very quickly. I don't know how long it
took me, and I believe poor Marion finally gave the matter up for a bad
business, didn't you, Marion?"
"Yes," answered Marion. "I have no taste for fancy-work—at least not
for that kind. I can't give my mind to such little matters—I really
cannot," said Marion, with an air as if she were apologizing for her
own superiority. "I cannot keep my attention fixed upon them; the first
I know, my thoughts are at the ends of the earth."
"That is rather unfortunate," said Doctor Campbell. "Is it only in such
little things that you find that difficulty?"
"I don't find it in things that interest me," answered Marion; "but I
must confess I do hate drudgery."
"And what do you call drudgery, my dear?"
Marion did not know exactly how to answer the question, but after a
little consideration she said,—
"I call any work drudgery where you have to go on doing the same things
over and over without any variety or interest."
"Then all work which is not interesting is drudgery?"
"Yes, to me it is. Some people seem to like it well enough. I call it
drudgery to wash dishes and bake and sew and learn lessons that one
does not care for."
"And, in short, to do any work which is not immediately entertaining or
amusing," said Doctor Campbell, finishing the list as Marion paused.
"Then I am sure you would never learn music in the world, Marion," said
Lizzy, "because more than half of that is real drudgery. You ought to
see the pages of five-finger exercises Mr. Dundas gives me. But now,
Dr. Campbell, what work do you call drudgery?"
"I don't call any work drudgery," said the doctor. "It is a bit of cant
to which I have a special objection. So long as there is no one task
which any one is called on to perform that may not be hallowed by a
good intention, and done for the sake of One who has done all for us,
there is no task which should be disgraced by the name of drudgery.
What you say about your music applies to all the work in the world.
More than half—yes, more than two thirds—of it is utterly uninteresting
in itself. It must be made first a matter of duty and obedience, and
then you may make it a labour of love in the way I hinted at."
"I should not think it would be so in your work, Doctor Campbell," said
Lizzy.
"In ours quite as much as in any other, Lizzy. Seen from the outside,
the life of a foreign missionary has an aspect of romance about it.
Seen from within, it has as little of romance as any other calling
whatever. To say nothing of the trials of sickness and danger and
homesickness—the last not the least—a foreign missionary comes in
contact with more sordid, disgusting details than any other worker,
unless it may be a work-house doctor or a clergyman in a low city
district. There come up constantly things which are unspeakably
disgusting both in a moral and physical point of view, but which nobody
knows but the missionary, simply because they are too bad to be told.
Then come the misunderstandings with fellow-workers and with friends at
home; and, in short, the missionary's life is like any other: in order
to do hard work, you must work hard," concluded the doctor, smiling.
"Do missionaries ever quarrel?" asked Lizzy.
"Missionaries, my dear, are human beings. I do not think they quarrel
more than other people—perhaps not quite so much. But you can see
that in such a small, isolated community, depending on each other for
society, and thrown very much together, the greatest prudence and
caution are necessary. You know how, when a large family connexion live
near each other, one single person who is imprudent or malicious in
speech may set the whole by the ears."
Lizzy sighed.
"What called out that sigh?" asked Mrs. Campbell, smiling.
"I was thinking that I should never do for a missionary," said Lizzy.
"I am sure I should not, if one must weigh and measure every word
one says," said Marion, rather indignantly. "I can't bear such cold,
calculating people; I think they are detestable. Let people follow
their impulses, I say."
"And suppose the impulse of somebody is to tell a scandalous story
about you or utterly to misrepresent something you have said or done?"
said Christian. "What then?"
Marion was saved the trouble of a reply by a sudden interruption. Just
as Mrs. Campbell finished speaking, Therese Beaubien was seen coming
across the field as if her feet had wings.
"What in the world ails Therese?" said Lizzy. "See how she is running!"
"We shall soon know, for she is coming here," said Mrs. Campbell, going
to the door just as Therese jumped over the garden wall, and came
running up the path to the house. At the same moment Alick McGregor
came round the corner and nearly caught Therese in his arms.
"Why, Therese, what is the matter?" exclaimed all the party at once.
"Oh, Mr. McGregor, have you seen my mother? Do you know where she is?"
exclaimed Therese.
"No, my dear; I have not seen her since last week some time."
"Oh, where can she be? What has happened?" said Therese, wringing her
hands. "Oh, Mr. McGregor, do, do come to our house and see what has
happened!"
[Illustration: _Heiress of McGregor._
—found a window—]
"In a moment," said Alick. "Sit down a moment, Therese; recover your
breath and tell us just what is the matter; then we shall know better
what to do. Your mother is not at home? She may have gone out somewhere
to work."
"No, no!" said Therese. "She always leaves the key where I can find it.
But it is not there now, and the house is fastened. I looked in through
the window, and everything is all smoked and blackened up; the ceiling
is scorched, and there is a great hole burned in the floor. Oh, do come
and see what has happened!"
It was not very far across the fields to the little house, and the
whole party was soon gathered round the door which was fast. Alick
tried the back door with the same result, but presently found a window,
by which he entered and unlocked the door.
"Stay where you are, girls," said he; "I don't know how much weight the
floor will bear. It is burned clear through. Duncan, will you come in?"
A more thorough search revealed little more than what Therese had seen
through the window. There had clearly been an attempt to set the house
on fire which had not succeeded. The fire had been lighted in the
middle of the floor, had burned through into the cellar, and from some
unexplained cause had gone out. There was no other sign of violence.
"Mother is killed! Mother is murdered!" exclaimed Therese. She turned
pale as ashes, and would have fallen but for Doctor Campbell's
supporting arm.
"Keep up, my dear; don't faint if you can possibly help it," said he.
"Sit down on the ground—flat down that is the best way. Here, take
this."
He poured something out of a small pocket-flask and held it to her
lips. The instinct of obedience was strong with Therese. She drank, and
her colour came back.
"I want you to try and keep your wits together, because you can give
us the help that nobody else can," said Doctor Campbell, seeing that
she was recovering. "We want you to look through the house and see what
is missing, to see particularly whether any of your mother's wearing
apparel is gone. Come, now, be a brave girl."
"How unfeeling Uncle Duncan is!" thought Marion.
Therese did not think so. She recognized the kindness in the doctor's
tone of command, and mustered all her energies to obey. In a moment she
rose to her feet and went into her mother's room, while Alick whispered
something to his sister, who nodded assent:
"I'm afraid so."
"Mother's hat and shawl and her waterproof cloak are gone," said
Therese, reappearing, "and some of her clothes. So is her large basket,
and I can't find my French Testament or my photograph that I gave her
last Christmas."
Alick and Miss Baby again exchanged glances. Therese saw the look:
"Oh, Mr. Alick, I am sure you know something you don't tell me. Do, do
please let me know all."
"You had better do so, Alick," said Miss Baby.
"The trouble is that I don't know anything certainly, though I have a
very strong suspicion," said Alick. "Therese, the truth is your father
has been seen twice during the last week. Sam Bryant met him face to
face on Blue Hill last Saturday, and I saw him twice on the same day."
"You don't think he has murdered her?" said Therese, in a horrified
whisper.
"No," answered Alick; "there are no signs of that. I think that she has
gone away with him."
"I don't believe it," said Therese, with a flash of indignant feeling
which brought the colour back to her face. "My mother would never
desert me for him—I know she never would."
"Let us look about again," said Doctor Duncan. "Has anything else been
altered since you were here?"
At that moment the cat made her appearance from a little shed not far
from the house. Therese went and looked into the shed.
"The cat's basket was up-stairs in the house, and now it is down here,"
she said. "Somebody must have moved it."
She went into the house and began moving out the bed from the wall.
"What is that for?" asked Miss Baby.
"Mother kept her money in a cupboard behind the bed when she had any,"
answered Therese. "I gave her eight dollars last Saturday, and she had
more, I know, for she had just sold all her baskets." She opened the
door of the little cupboard as she spoke. It was quite empty save for a
bit of paper which lay on the shelf. Therese caught it up eagerly, read
it, and then gave it to Alick.
"It is true," said she, in a hoarse whisper. "My mother has deserted
me. Oh, mother, mother, mother!"
The note was very short. It merely said, "I am going to leave you, my
child. I can do you no good, and I am only a shame and trouble to you
and all my family. Don't distress yourself about me; I am not worth it.
Stay with Mrs. Tremaine as long as you can, and be kind and dutiful to
my mother. I shall never come back, but you may hear from me some time
or other. I shall be taken care of." That was all.
"Poor thing! Poor misguided, perverse creature!" said Miss Baby.
"Don't say a word now," said Doctor Duncan, hastily, "but let us get
this unhappy child home, and just as quickly as can be. Marion, run on
before, and have a bed got ready, and plenty of hot water. We shall
have to carry her, Alick."
"Oh, Uncle Duncan, what ails her?" cried Marion. "How dreadfully she
looks!"
"Don't stop to talk, but run," was the doctor's only answer. "I am
afraid she will have a fit. Take her up, Alick. There is no use in
talking to her; she does not hear a word. Poor child! I hope her reason
will not be overset."
Therese was carried to the farm and laid in bed.
Lizzy went down to the village and sent up her father and Mrs.
Tremaine, but Therese lay like a breathing statue. Her eyes were wide
open, but she seemed to see nothing and hear nothing.
"Do you think she will die, Uncle Duncan?" asked Marion.
"There is no saying; she may do worse than die," answered the doctor.
"Pray for her, my child, for she needs all our prayers. I have great
fears that she will never know anything again."